CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Silence. Pained, deafening silence. Aside from the sound of her own sobs, and Lilian's occasional knocks on the door to try to bring her tea, or speak in comforting tones to her, Isobel had known nothing but lengthy and empty silences since the argument with Lord Brighton yesterday morning. What hurt most, perhaps, was an entire night alone - without Lord Brighton even trying to fetch her. It stung, and even as the bruise on her neck began to heal, it hurt more than ever - and not a good hurt, not the sort of hurt that burned memories into her skin and made her adrenaline flow hot and lusty. No, the sort of dull ache; a foreboding that made her fear if she would ever know happiness again, or if this jealousy and the lies had poisoned her too thoroughly.
Now, she sat in silence once more - at one end of a monolithic dining hall, a long time separating her from Lord Brighton, who sat at the opposite head of the table, sipping at a bowl of soup before him, eyes watching lackadaisically as Lady Duskwood arrived and took her seat. Werner had marched into the scullery and banged on the door to Isobel's diminutive closet to fetch the lady; he had barked at her orders and requests, each one making her progressively more uncomfortable. She couldn't stand that strict old man, or the uncouth nature of him; she began to think perhaps his manner had inspired the crude nature of the young Lord Brighton. She waited silent, her eyes rolling along the windows, until a servant silently placed a bowl of the soup - vegetables roasted in stock and herbs de provence, one of her favorites - before the lady. She regarded it cautiously; she glanced at Lord Brighton, but did so only in passing, their eyes never meeting. It felt like she had to follow his bedroom rules, here - no looking, without his permission.
Except denial here was of her own accord - and meant loneliness and pain, instead of a warm touch or a surge of pleasure along her arching back.
She took the spoon and sipped at the soup; quiet, demure. Never a slurp or an improper sound; she was a perfect image of the proper lady, just like he had said. She glanced into the bowl of swirling liquid, steam rising up from its surface, its color a faint shade of yellow-orange, flecks of spices dancing around in circles. She couldn't take this sensation, and stole another brief glance at the man on the other end of the table - who, to her silently furious chagrin, was not even looking at her! Instead, he watched the sunset out the tall dining hall windows, the panes of glass stained faint shades of orange and red, enhancing the natural glow of the falling sun. Sconces, wicks coated in oil, burned a homey glow along the opposite wall, but a darkness nevertheless encroached. She might even call it a romantic, dimly-lit darkness, if even a single flair of romance remained at the table. Instead she looked away, ignoring that gorgeous face, now belonging to a man she could feel little for save scorn.
The silence truly pained her; she had heard nothing but her own faint sobs and the sizzle of her memories for an entire day and more; only Lilian's muffled voice had been there to comfort the lady. A nightmare visited her that night, and her lack of sleep had left her eyes darkened and exhausted; she wore only her worn-in nightgown and shawl to dinner, looking positively underdressed compared to the Lord's always-present, slick sense for modern fashions. She looked away, for a long time, until something drew her eyes to the other side of the table - a metallic clicking and clacking, persistent until it became distracting. She watched him, raising a brow in confusion as he scraped wildly at the bowl with his silverware, to scoop up every last bit of his soup that he could. When he noticed Lady Duskwood watching him he stopped, before smiling churlishly and shrugging his shoulders.
"What? It tastes exquisite," he shouted down the long dining hall, his voice echoing through the vaulted room. She tried to hide a giggle, but she couldn't, her cheeks growing bright and rosy as the uncouth animal slurped up the last lingering bits of the appetizer. "You don't think it's exquisite?" he shouted down the hall.
"I'm not certain how you know this is one of my favorites, but yes, if it stills your silly behavior, it's quite exquisite," she called back down the table.
"What? I can't hear you," Lord Brighton comically cupped a hand to his ear, bringing another bright giggle to Isobel's reddened cheeks. She didn't try to repeat herself, exhaling weakly and watching the sunlight along the walls, failing at hiding the amused pleasure his antics brought to her face. Her expression dropped to her soup - it felt dull compared to the glee brought to her by his face. She looked across the table once more, and found him approaching closely.
"I didn't hear you!" he shouted, as if playing deaf. She squirmed away, trying so so hard to hide the giggles his actions brought to her lips. He stood next to her, his ear cupped, waiting anxiously for her response, bearing down on her with a playful obnoxiousness. "Could you repeat that?!"
"No!" she shouted, snickering. "You're making quite a braying fool of yourself, Lord Brighton," she teased, swirling her spoon idly in her soup.
"Didn't I tell you about that? Ellery," he insisted. "Lord Brighton's what they called my father, love."
"Oh, love? That again? Didn't I tell you about that?" she mocked him through her smiles and fits of blushing. "I do believe I did, m'lord."
"I rather enjoy it, love," he teased, pulling up the chair closest to him, sitting at her side. She clammed up, still hesitant; still worried, after what she had to see the other day. Her voice shaky, she responded quickly; at the least, it certainly felt good to be free of that plaguing silence.
"P... perhaps, I enjoy calling you... Lord Brighton," she retorted, her eyebrows tilted, her gaze unsteady, but enticed. She utterly despised how easily he had proved her to be wrong - her, and everything about this stuffy world she lived in, all in a matter of weeks, with that ethereal charm and body of his.
"I think you'd prefer to call me master, love," he smirked, looming closer. She blushed, and her giggles grew anxious; flighty, as she pulled her pretty eyes away from his face.
"Your rules only apply to your bedroom games," she retorted, voice fully of bold savvy. "Not all the other silly games you play."
"Games? Me? Which sort of games, love? Football, polo? Those sorts of games?" he joked, reclining in his chair, watching her with the signature, brash and liberated confidence that secretly attracted Isobel.
"No, the sort of games you play in the parlor of your manor, m'lord," Isobel retorted, not holding back at all. "I'm not certain, yet, what rules you have, as pertaining to those particular games." Silence blanketed them again; that uncomfortable, nagging silence, of the sort that Isobel had grown to absolutely disdain.
"Perhaps 'game' isn't an appropriate label for any endeavor embarked upon with Lady Maryweather," Lord Brighton said, his voice full of facetious dread. "I'd more aptly describe them as dancing upon a wire suspended over a burning and hellish pit," Lord Brighton said with a chill along his spine. "Looking into the Lady Maryweather's eyes feels as close as I wager mortal man shall ever come to speaking with the Prince of Lies himself."
"Quite strong and dismissive talk for a man who seemed to quite enjoy her hand upon his lap just yesterday," Lady Duskwood quipped, head held high, her expression nonchalant as she watched her soup swirl and stir about her spoon. "Or do you quite enjoy flirting with Hell and her servants, then?"
"Enjoy? Did the expression on my face particularly shout 'enjoy' to you, Lady Duskwood?" he responded with a tone of facetious refinement. "I should hope that it did not. Is that what's so vexed you?"
"I'm certain you know precisely what's vexed me," Isobel huffed.
"I didn't take jealousy to be something you would develop nor savor, love," Lord Brighton announced flippantly. "After all. You despise me and my churlish, uncouth ways, don't you? I'm not much of a gentleman," he teased her. "You're a proper woman, fit for a proper gentleman. And this is not but an exchange made to alleviate matters of old business past, is it not?" he confronted her.
"I could scarcely develop feelings for a cur, a man who who chases after any gown, blouse, skirt or dress which passes through the door to his estate," Isobel snarled, their eyes meeting again. The eyes. They always told the true story - and Isobel had begun to take to heart their meaning the same as Lord Brighton had. She could see it in his own - and he could see it, she knew, in hers. Something ghostly animated their every exchange; some invisible feeling they both evaded, but could never escape.
"Lady Maryweather is an obligation, and not one I savor," Lord Brighton grudgingly admitted, breaking eye contact with Isobel; she could see the first hints of shame she had ever recognized, creasing across the surface of his face.
"And so even you have obligations? How far does this obligation matter to you? How far would you go, Ellery?" Isobel asked.
"Who are you, to question matters of obligation? To argue against them? Are you not living in a matter of obligation right now?" Lord Brighton fired back, bitterness on his tongue.
"Perhaps I am, or perhaps I'm not!" Isobel shouted in response, her voice shrill and thin; realizing her blurted admission, her cheeks burned and her lungs rattled with heavy breaths. "...Per.... Perhaps..." a streak of shock crossed Lord Brighton's expression.
"Perhaps?" Lord Brighton echoed her.
"D... do you not... feel something?" Isobel's voice quivered; she looked away, ashamed. She had learned never to speak so brashly; never to love someone like Lord Brighton. But her heart raced hard and her breaths trembled and she felt him move quickly, rising from his chair, his hands on her shoulders; squeezing, his words dripping like sweet, steamy sugar down on to her.
"You're right," he admitted, "perhaps... I'm chained in ways I'd rather not admit. But I'm not chained with regard to you, Isobel," he said, leaning against her ear. She felt his breath teasing the bruise on her neck again and suddenly that old feeling returned; that throb in her chest, that quaking anxiousness between her legs, the heat building along her thighs, the curl of her toes as she remembers those hot, intense nights spent next to him; spent beneath him, spent following his bedroom rules. Her muscles tensed, and her breath flowed white-hot as she looked away, denying it; denying him, all of this, lying to herself again.
"This... you, and Lady Maryweather... and I, meant to find a proper gentleman, a proper husband, not... I shouldn't accept... this, I shouldn't enjoy it," she protested, her words faltering as he began to kiss her neck, reminding her he could be so tender yet so sinful, indulging the desires hidden inside of her body in the same breath as he rained delicious praise onto her body.
"No more lies," he breathed into her ears. "...I command it," he added, and her whole body shook, right down to her bones. He had done what she had hoped he would never do - commanded her in that tone that so enticed her to speak truthfully.
"I... I can't..."
"I love you, Lady Isobel, and I think you enjoy this more than you can admit. I think you agree with me," he sighed breathily, kissing along her neck.
"You told me, when we began this... liaison, that we... we would know when the time came," Isobel said shakily.
"I did. And I do know," he said, and she felt that warmth welling up, hot as an afternoon sun, in her chest; nervous, but so wanting. "Do you?..."
"It's now," she admitted. "The time, the moment, it's... it's now, and... please, show me, show me you love me, show me what it is to be free," she begged, writhing as she felt him grip her waist. Their lips met and it felt like it never had before; fire crackling between them, untamed and unhindered.
"I can only show you freedom," he breathed hotly into her ear, "you have to embrace it yourself." He grasped her wrist, leading her towards the door. She followed, without hesitation.